


Night in the Wirral

by Astray



Category: Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, Merlin (TV), Sir Gawain and the Green Knight
Genre: Gwaine does not care what's happening, It could have been worse, M/M, PWP, Shameless Smut, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Author was too tired when writing, honestly, this should be canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 16:44:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astray/pseuds/Astray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gwaine finds himself dozing off in the Wirral. And of course, things happen. The Green Knight is curious, apparently, and Gwaine does not exactly care. Something of a crossover between Merlin and Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night in the Wirral

**Author's Note:**

> This has been wrecking havoc in my brain for too long. I might tweak it a bit in the futur. But there's not enough Gawain/Green Knight ficcage around on the internet - though the rare fics are all absolutely awesome.   
> So, since my headcanon for Gawain is... Gwaine... (I blame Eoin Macken for that one!) I decided to be honest about it.
> 
> There are plenty articles to serve as a justification for this story. Let's say this is a fangirl dream come true.

There was something uncanny about the thought of a living, breathing entity pertaining to the forest. He had lost everything in this nest – everything. His king, his friends – all forgotten in face of the power of the Wirral. It was too green, too warm for the season. He never understood why he ever came back here. He had lost all – loyalty lying in the mud – overpowering treachery and he was chased into the deepest parts of the wooden realm. He believed not in faeries, all was but Morgana's lies. He knew better. He had no choice but to stop however. His body was weary with his flight and his sword felt heavier than it should. He sat down next to an old oak trunk. Its gnarled roots coming out of the ground as though many storms had tried to uproot it not to avail. Ivy was strangling it, dark leaves weaving wreathe across the rough bark. Gwaine was in no mood to contemplate the fearsome sight of the darkening forest. Unknowingly, he had come so much closer to the Green Chapel than any mortal man could have. He had never known... Sleep fell upon him. 

The rustling leaves left no trace as they advanced in the dark. Whispers of wind unheard by the sleeping man. No man had ever come to my lands as you have. And this much was true. The ivy seemed to climb down the tree and onto the ground – or was it a trick of the light? The sleeper would not awake with a start, this could not be allowed, lulled out of the dreamland by dreamlike reality. A smile played on ageless face – spirit too ancient to be remembered but through his many guises. Outlawed of his own realm, protecting the only one who deserved not the wolf's head. He reached a hand out to the reluctant knight's face – so peaceful in his sleep. Gone the guarded expression that had occupied his brow when staying in Hautdesert, gone the carefree smile of the careless one rushing to his doom with no second thoughts so long he had his fun. How he envied him – he felt warmth and cold, could live and die. Could breathe and choke. In the wake of his careful touch, tendrils of dark green. The soft caress – he could feel it in his being, ancient essence of the woods connected to all – the hard trunk against the man's back, the softened earth supporting his weight. The roots moving slowly, as though to protect the knight from harm, silently brushing against the worn leather. He could see eyes moving behind closed lids, a dreamer's stare. He got slowly up, the moon briefly catching in his hair, like young spring leaves. 

Gwaine thought he was asleep but maybe he was not. His sense of touch oddly dulled, as though something was shielding him from the exterior. Looking up, he saw him. As he had met him at the Green Chapel and yet not quite – he could not tell where was Bertilak and where the Green Knight. It did not matter, probably. He was not facing an enemy, and as far as the recent events were concerned, he surmised that the Green Knight was the least of his problems. He tried to get up, if only because he hated being towered over by anyone. And found out that he could not move. Frowning, he looked down at his arms – bound by... what? Looking further, he saw that some branches were loosely framing his waist and legs. His frown deepened.

“Ivy? You are so afraid I'd run?” Alright, maybe he would run, but that was only survival instinct. He did not entertain the idea of being bound at all and especially when the Green Knight was eyeing him so... calculatingly. Probably he should not have agreed to the exchange games. Certainly the man was upset his own wife made advances on Gwaine. It made no sense, he himself admitted that he sent Lady Bertilak to him. Apparently, his confusion was plain to the Knight, as he made his way towards him.

“You would not run. You may disagree with the title given to you but you are a man of your word.”

“Tah.” Came the derisive snort, before he could even stop himself. He knew that the Knight could kill him easily enough and he was curious. Why would he bind him and... wait, he did not even have his axe, what on earth?

“That was a nice way of saying that your pride would not let you turn tail at the first threat.”

“Well, to serve Arthur you have to leave your survival instinct at the door.” He risked a smile. As far as he knew, the man had some sense of humour. “Though it doesn't explain why I'm wrapped up in weeds, does it?” He could not help quirking his eyebrows at this. He had a right to know. Wait... the Knight was not armed – and he had always seen him with his axe. He looked neither like Bertilak nor like the Green Knight. And they were sharing banter. And he was tied up and- “I'm dead drunk and dreaming?”

“You are not drunk, and you might be dreaming.” The figure of the Knight loomed over him – it sent thrills down his bones – part fear, part... some kind of trepidation. He wanted to slap himself. He was no maiden, he knew what was going on. He did not like it. Damn it. Damn- cool lips touched his for an instant – nothing like the kisses he had shared with the lord of Hautdesert during his stay. It was so hesitant he failed to react – or even fight against it. “Whichever suits your fancy best, Sir Gwaine.” The shrewd smile on the Knight face brought a scowl on Gwaine's. 

“Since when am I Sir Gwaine to you? You made it clear I was not fit for knighthood, something I was well-aware of, thank you very much. Until this royal idiot decided to knight me. I despise them.”

“And yet, you seem to have integrated their own rules and shortcomings. Not that you had none to begin with, I'd wager.”

Alright, maybe ogling the Green Knight was not a clever move but he was known to have bouts of not-cleverness so it was alright. His brain was gone out of the window it seems. 

The Green Knight simply stared at his 'host' – he felt the tension that was thrumming through the ivy's tendrils, he knew that Gwaine was ready to bolt – even though the man seemed not to be aware of it. Or was it something different, it was hard to tell. As a matter of fact, Gwaine was harder a man to decipher, the Knight knew it well. He had not expected him to comply with his exchange of game when in Hautdesert. He had not expected him to go with it – he had expected fights and refusal to cooperate, even expected him to go away on his own. And there he was, hidden in the depth of his realm. His subjects and kin had told him all he needed to know. He waited until he saw the face of Gwaine dip in slumber before leaning in. It was indulgence, plain and simple. He was a creature of little deception and he was aware that it might be the last he would see of the knight. He leaned towards him – the lights shifting slightly across the foliage, as though to hide the moon's stare. The Knight laid a hand across Gwaine's neck, as though he could break it should he use any strength. Carefully, oh so carefully, he kissed him again. He had time. All the time in the world as long as the forest would remain. The ivy rose to meet his hand, making a soft rustling sound – it seemed to calm the human. If this is a dream to you, let it be so that you will remember it ever after. It was not love, not really. The trees do not love – do not lust. He was a combination of the legends – wild man, spirit and sorcerer, ancient beings, more ancient that feelings. It was warmth he could feel, reflections of what Gwaine normally would have felt. He shook his head, his long hair falling against the shoulder of the knight. This was the only thing that drew him to Gwaine – the illusion of feeling something beyond the sensation of leaves in the wind, of trunks bitten by cold and steel. He closed his eyes, before opening them again in surprise when hands moved to his shoulders. The ivy still twined around his wrists, Gwaine was not a prisoner any more than he would wish to be. 

“You are dreaming.”

“I have a name you know.” 

“Gwaine...” This came as a plea, he knew not how. What he was hoping for, what he was longing for – he was the one caught by the ivy, unable to breath. And yet death would not claim him. 

“I don't care that I'm dreaming – if I am. If I am dying, I'd care more.” The carefree comment came out before he could catch it back, they both knew it was true though. 

“I will not let you die in my realm.” It was a promise he made, and it was as strong a vow as he made the day he swore to guard these lands. A promise – sealed. He should not – Gwaine did not belong in his world and he belonged not to Camelot. But spirits care not for boundaries. Their lips met again – only this time Gwaine rose slightly, winding his hands in his hair. It reminded the Knight of the last exchange in Hautdesert – how desperate he had seemed. It was the same again – desperation of a man who felt his death was coming closer. It was a disturbing thought, and one he discarded in favour of holding him closer. Sentiment was a threat to his sheer existence, but he would not deny the one person who had seen him and did not recoil. 

Gwaine was not sure whether he was awake or still wandering that path between sleep and wakefulness. To be fair, he had no clue as to why he was going with it, or why he found himself kissing back the Knight. What should he call him anyway? He slapped himself mentally. Really, that was slightly worrying if he started to consider names in such a moment. Well, if that was not real, it was fine. The Knight's touch was so light, he could mistake it for air growing thick or something equally nonsensical. He was neither warm nor cold – reflecting without creating, if that was possible. The neutrality of the touch did not prevent surges of need to spike through his skin – if anything, it only made matters worse. These meandering hands – the cool slide of vines across his bare skin – when did he remove his shirt? Looking up as in a daze, he met the stare of the Knight – the kind of predatory gaze he was not used to have directed his way. He was the one prowling, usually – he was no prey. A remnant of pride made his snarl against the Knight, only to have the ivy restraining him again. As though it had a mind of its own. A gasp escaped him when tendrils moved to trap his legs – too close, too far too – coherence be damned. 

“Something's wrong, Sir Gwaine?” Smug. Oh so smug, it made Gwaine want to punch that – handsome, bastard! - face to wipe the smile from it. Could not. For obvious reason. He was pressed flush against the rough bark of the tree, dark leaves caressing his skin as though in a breeze. There was no wind. 

“You know what!” He could not help it, he hated it. It reminded of these times where he was trapped by Lady Bertilak – how he had resented her then. To come to him when her husband was away. He did not mind, most of the time. But damn, why would anyone cheat on a man such as Bertilak, it was beyond him and- His thoughts stopped dead in their track. He did not... He did... Oh shit! He hung his head in defeat, feeling like fool. That was it, wasn't it? Damn it all to Hell. A hand took hold of his jaw, forcing his head back up. There, he saw it – the relief. The same... longing... he was sure he had felt at this moment, back in Hautdesert. Now you know... Took you time. Where that came from, he did not know, he did not care. Without thinking he reached out for the Knight, forcing his arms out of the slack hold of the vines to draw him downward. He did not think when he claimed this mouth that had haunted him – his words, his looks – the way he had felt when he had pressed their bodies together in an embrace. It had been a lie – the thing with the Lady – he had used it, unconsciously, as an excuse, to get closer to this man he thought he would never reach. And now he had him. Good. It was not a gentle kiss. It was teeth colliding, tongues fighting for dominance – as though Gwaine still wanted to win somehow – though to be fair, losing did not seem so horrible. He did not even remember how they moved but the Knight was kneeling between his thighs, hands gripping his sides, as though he could disappear in an instant. When he broke away for air, he was not sure if he was seeing things – air deprivation can do that and it was not as though he breathed a lot. Still, whatever air was in his lungs was stuck there at the sight before him. However close-fitting his clothes had been, the sheer vision of the naked form of the Green Knight left him at a loss for words. He could not even think of a proper adjective – and clearly, it was not the time to ponder over language. Though the fact that he could not stop himself from licking his lips at the sight was indication enough. 

The Green Knight did not miss the impish glint in Gwaine's eyes. It was a foreign feeling, to have a human being staring at him without trace of this ancient awe that seemed rooted within men and women. Possibly because he had come so close to death himself. A slow smile tugged at his lips. The thought was rather entertaining. He knew though – it was now far too late to turn back. But it was alright – it was all a dream, after all. He chuckled inwardly at this. He did not move when Gwaine's hands came forwards to touch – it was enticing, the care with which he explored this body – as though he was doubting his eyes. “I am as real as you are, Gwaine.” He dropped the title on a whim, and the effect it had on his counterpart was unexpected, to say the least. He literally lunged – how, he had no idea, considering their respective position – his strength was impressive, and he managed to reverse their situation, though Gwaine was now straddling him. And the ideas that came to his mind were rather filthy ones. He did not move, willing himself to calm down before he did something drastic. It was hard to, with Gwaine grinding against him – he could not stop himself from reaching out to hold his hips – to force him away, to hold him closer – and he wanted. Wanted as he had never wanted before – he was not even human, emotions lost to him. As Bertilak, he had learned – learned to feel – learned to give in – learned to yearn. It was now rearing its head, threatening his thinning control. He held fast though, letting Gwaine control the kiss – how hot he felt, it was like fire on greenwood, deadly and so bright it hurt. He fleetingly wondered if all humans felt like this, if their skin was bound to burn so. He drowned in it, the furnace of his mouth, the brands left by the trail of his hands on his skin. On his shoulders, down his sides – testing, marking. Those hellish lips descended, lighting a wildfire on his body as it moved from his jaw and down his neck, biting his throat, his collarbone. He felt like he was being mapped out – a territory to be discovered and claimed. He would not let it come to this but it was a heady sensation all the same. Kisses on his chest – the occasional bite and immediately, tongue darting out, as though in apology. Lower – his entire body quivered – he was not used to this. He rarely let himself be approached under that form, and even more rarely still, allowed others to touch him. Without second thoughts, he carded his fingers through Gwaine's hair. He liked it, so unlike his own – soft, it was rare for a man leading his life. His grip tightened brutally when teeth racked against his ribcage, drawing a groan from the man. He tried again, experimentally – and there it was – not quite a moan, but needy enough that it went straight to his groin. Gwaine bit down this time, with bruising force and he could feel his flesh threatening to tear between his teeth. He let out a breath that suspiciously sounded like Gwaine's name – which was obviously taken as a come on. Hands wandered down his body, along his thighs – as though to test his strength – a appreciative sound was all the warning he got before hot breath teased his now straining erection. It was all he could do not to buck his hips towards those tantalizing lips. Instead, he called to him. 

“No, Gwaine.” The look that was sent his way would be enough to whither half the forest. 

“Allow me. Just a taste.” Gwaine was not one to be deterred. He wanted to have him – there was something primeval about the Green Knight that made him want to snarl and just take. He had no power to do so, however. That much he knew. But he would try anyway. He licked his lips again, letting his eyes shamelessly feast on the figure of the Master of the Forest. Nothing in this world could compare, simply because he was not of this world. All of a sudden, the vines were back, sliding across his neck, his arms – it did not pull him back, simply preventing him from moving forwards. The Knight sat up, trapping his still-clothed arousal between them – hands framing his face – he could rip his head off. The realization was disturbingly hot to him. The Knight leaned forth, until their lips where less than an inch apart – he could feel the coolness of his breath, making feel even more feverish by the second. 

“No Gwaine. Not now... I want you.” 

That dark, deep voice, the things it could do to him. He once – albeit drunkenly – swore to himself he would never surrender to anyone. But when the Green Knight said those words, there was no denying the thrill was was sent rushing down his spine to crash into his abdomen – it left him breathless for an instant before he found his voice again. 

The strength of the tendrils binding him, almost choking him, the impossible strength and power of the man who was holding him – it was unravelling him from the inside. He could have said that he wanted to be claimed, an animalistic need to possess and be possessed – at this very moment. A thought flashed through his skull, just in time to make him wonder if he was going crazy already – sure as hell it would not have occurred to him otherwise. Or it was the Green Knight's foreign nature... Yeah, that had to be the reason why. And then, the words tumbled out before he could even think of catching them: “Have me then.” He was drunk, he had to be. His head was swarming and sanity seemed a lost cause. He found that he could not care less, because as soon as these words were uttered, it was like the Green Knight was everywhere. Surrounding him, protecting him – tearing him apart as though to see how he was inside. He knew he should have tried to break free from it, free from the vines, free from his embrace. He never did as he should anyway. 

When he found himself lying on the ground, he could not even complain. The simple presence of the Green Knight towering over him reminded him how much of a spirit he probably was. Part of the forest, part of this ground. It felt like taking a dive, weightless water surrounding him, taking him in. On impulse, he caught the Knight's shoulders, dragging him downward. He needed this - even if he knew he could never overpower him - and he did not want to anyway - he needed to hold and mark. Hands on his sides holding him close but preventing him to move at all.   
Their lips met again, he cared not that it was messy, sloppy - all he could feel was the smouldering heat, the breathless fight as the Knight ravaged his mouth - taking, again and again, all that he wanted. Gwaine's nails dug into the back of the Knight, dragging them along. He still had some fight left in him! It did not go unnoticed, as sharp teeth dug into his lower lip. He snarled, could not prevent the aggression from rising. 

For an instant, he thought that the Green Knight was going to just get up, walk away – that it was indeed just a dream – or that it was a reality in which he had overstepped his boundaries, though he knew not how. Maybe he did not want to know. Instead, he swore he felt the Green Knight smile. Hands, those hands that felt like smooth bark on his skin that, trailing on his ribs. The vines twisted around his arms once more, not to hinder him, though he dimly realized that right now, he could not do anything without the Knight's knowledge. It was disturbing – he was attached to his freedom, it was part of him. And yet, he could not even summon the outrage this would have brought up in other circumstances. You are free to surrender, for a time. Freedom will never be taken from you. So, he surrendered – without a word, without thinking. He was safe after all. It was a dream – even if it weren't then he could say he thought it was a dream. He noticed the Knight's hand hovering at his waist – there again, he did not need to speak. The longing was clear in their stance, so why would he delay any further? There was no point in doing so. And he'll be damned but he craved it. He was not going to say the words again, and so, he planted his feet in the soft earth of the forest. He did so that the Knight could removed his hindering pants – and did not plan for his body to come into contact with the Knight's. The force of his movement brought a sharp his from his lips. It forced the air out of his lungs, leaving him to pant, trying to catch his breath. He did not even know what he was doing, until his back started to hurt him from the awkward position he was in. The cooling night air grazed his skin as though it was taking form, touching him. The ghost-like caresses of the Knight's hands on him, his lips that sought his in a searing kiss. It was too much. He felt like floating but even so, his patience was a shredded mess. He did not give a damn if he was trapped, if it was a trap, if it was a lie or anything. He just needed more. 

It took some time for his mind to catch up and process the sudden change – it was as though his clothes had vanished into thin air. He must be growing nut by the minute, that was the only explanation. The vines were back, only this time some were loosely coiling around his ankles, sneaking up his legs. He looked up to stare into the Knight's face, did not miss the faint light he saw for anything but... lust... yearning... something, anything he was not used to see here. He was intensely aware of the slender vines crawling on his skin still, not unlike the clever hands caressing his hips, lifting him up ever so slightly. It was subtle but he was focused on everything he felt, every single touch reaching to his awareness like a spark of light in the dark. He felt like he would burst, raging hunger howling at the pit of his belly – he needed to bite into something, anything. That was when he was near crumbling down into a broken mess that he felt it – the lightest touch. But he did not imagine it, as it grew more insistent. Part of him did not expect the Knight to be too gentle about it – and he certainly showed that he could be forceful. So it surprised him. His entire body was tensed, muscles pulled so tight that his bones seemed close to snap. And yet, he could not fight the Knight away. He was not sure he wanted to – his touch like cool water on his overheated skin. He knew pain would be terrifying, and had he been any saner, he would have asked the Knight to stop. He did not. It was like floating in a dream, knowing that whatever pain he would feel was but an illusion, something his mind created to keep him away. The touch more persistent – pain creeping in – a deep burn that threatened him. Yet the hunger would not be sated – he would not let the Green Knight leave – dream or reality, he cared not. Lips descended in a slow kiss, taking his mind off whatever else would happen to him. In this moment, Gwaine knew that he was perfectly safe, and that no harm would be done to him. 

He would not know how it came down to it. A nip on his lip, a hand caressing his side in an apologetic gesture as pain engulfed him, threatened to break him altogether – he could not breath. His world reduced to it – until he felt something else – tendrils, not unlike leaves. Soothing. He knew what it was. He tried to relax, let the magic run its course, until pain has ebbed. Until all that was left was yowling starvation for more. Gwaine's mind had decided to run for the hills. All the while, the Knight had waited. He would not move until he was certain that Gwaine was not suffering. After all, for all his knowledge, he had so rarely dealt with humans in such a way that it felt new again. As though the past was dissolving into a blur. He knew that if he were human, he would have snapped long ago. Even now, even as aloof and removed as he was, he could not deny any longer his yearning. As Bertilak, he had given in – and those reckless kisses had found an echo in his spirit. Like an ancient oak stirring back to life, roots suddenly moving across the earth – uprooting, as it would be, all foundations of an otherwise tame existence. Now was no longer the time for sleep. Spirits, once given the possibility to feel, often had difficulties to go back the path. He knew, as he knew of all that entered his wood – as he knew each young tree and ageless rocks – he knew that he would not turn back now. As though sap had suddenly turned to blood. He could feel Gwaine in ways no one ever would, the leaves and branches, the earth itself, pouring into him all that the knight was feeling. How his heart was pounding in his chest. How desperate he was. A flash of hunger caught him of guard – the wolfshead indeed. He had not planned for this. None of it. Yet, there was no backing down. 

Gwaine only found his senses too late – yet, it was too early – he had no clue. His breath caught as he finally, finally, felt the Green Knight pushed into him. The pain came back, clawing at his spine, wailing through his nerves – surprisingly, he could care less. The magic that had soothed him was here again, and all he could think about was this knowledge of being filled, completed, by a being as ancient as the earth he walked upon. It was a heady feeling. And it definitely settled any qualms Gwaine could have had about kissing Bertilak. It took time for him to relax enough, to be able to feel past the pain. It eventually ebbed to a dull ache... The first thrust finally silencing the monster that had been howling inside of him. And yet, he clawed at the Knight, his mind reeling at the feeling of this cool, slightly rough skin – youthful bark, green in sprint. The ivy was no longer restraining him, sliding against his arms, legs and chest, reaching wherever the Green Knight could not, drowning him in sensations he did not think were attainable to man. He would burn without fire and would not care – if he was dreaming, then it did not matter. If he was not... there was no way he would ever forget, his hands and mouth roaming the Knight body as much as he could, his legs snaking around his waist – something he never quite go around doing. It felt right, probably because of the sheer wrongness of it, and in any other circumstances, he would have laughed. Their embrace was frantic – and certainly messy, but the night was not even getting old and the forest was barely waking up. 

Had someone asked Gwaine why he was so late after his patrol, or why he had outrun the others, they would have earned a careless grin and a 'you were too slow, mate!' Had someone wondered why Gwaine took to sneak past the borders into the Wirral now and again, they would probably not have an answer. Merlin knew better than to ask. Because now, the Wirral was no longer this threatening presence at the borders. The wild spirits were now at rest, and it was all that mattered. And when Gwaine asked Merlin why he looked so happy and why he took great care at packing his stuff, all he got was a knowing smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Did I say I am not sorry at all? Also... It was bound to happen after years working on SGGK.


End file.
